The Beach House. Mary Monroe Alice

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СКАЧАТЬ trading saltwater for fresh, her southern lilt for a midwestern twang, vowing to make a place in the world with her brains and wit, not her feminine charms.

      She’d given it her all. During the day she worked as a secretary in an ad firm. At night, while roommates were having fun at bars finding mates, she went to school. To this day she was most proud of having earned a college degree by going to night school for seven long years. She went on to get a Master’s in business, all without a penny of support from her parents. That was her way. She believed if she worked harder than most were willing to, she’d win the race.

      And she did, but the race was a marathon. It took her fifteen years to doggedly work her way up the ladder from receptionist to account director. She’d earned a full and busy life, filled with the small luxuries that she was proud to be able to afford for herself. She wasn’t wealthy, but she could splurge and go to the theater, drink good bottles of wine, dabble in investments and buy the appropriate suits and accessories required of a woman in her position.

      And from time to time there were men…Never anything lasting, but then again, she never expected it to be. She’d been with Richard Selby for four years, longer than anyone before. He was a lawyer for the same ad firm, surefooted, witty and handsome in a corporate way. It was as close as she’d come to a serious relationship. She wondered if this was love? They didn’t speak the words—it was not their style—but she felt the understanding was there.

      All in all, her life had been content.

      And then, unthinkably, that life was over. She was fired and found she had no friends outside of work. She’d left town without so much as a goodbye to Richard and it didn’t seem to have made any difference. She still couldn’t get over that fact.

      What frightened her most was that she’d had no control over what happened. She was a woman who liked control, who planned for all contingencies. But she hadn’t seen it coming. She’d worked and worked, moving along on her planned trajectory and bam! Now she felt numb. Drained of everything but fear. Wouldn’t they have a good laugh at work if they could see her now? The strong, tough Miss Rutledge curled up like a fetus in her mother’s house.

      She brought the blanket high up under her chin, burying her face in the pillow. The down smelled of the sea. Holding it tighter, she looked again outside her window. A gust of air carrying the sweet scent of rain sent the roller shade rapping.

      A rain shower would be nice, she thought drowsily, closing her eyes again.

      

      She awoke later to the sound of knocking wood. Opening her eyes, she was surprised to find the room shadowy dark. In the hall, a light glowed. Her mother stood at the window, a small, trim figure in a thin summer sweater, an apron tied around her waist. Lovie was patting the window frame with the butt of her hand, trying to close the stubborn, swollen wood against the incoming storm. An angry wind billowed the screens and the first fat drops of rain streaked the glass. At last the window rumbled closed, leaving the room tight and secure.

      “What time is it?” Cara asked in a croaky voice, rising up on her elbows. Pain pulsed in her head, sending her back to the pillows with a soft groan.

      “I’m sorry I woke you,” her mother said, fastening the window lock and rolling the shade down. “My but that rain’s coming down like the Lord’s flood.” Turning to face Cara again, she studied her with a mother’s eyes. She stepped closer, hesitant. “How’s the headache?”

      “Not as bad as this morning.”

      “But still there?”

      “Uh-huh,” she murmured. “How long have I slept? What time is it?” she repeated, licking dry lips.

      “It’s almost four o’clock. It’s been drizzling on and off all day, just teasing us. But a good storm is rolling in now from the mainland. Thank heavens. We need the rain.” She reached out to stroke a lock of hair from Cara’s forehead, then rested her palm to test for fever. Her fingertips felt soothing and Cara’s lids drooped. “And you can use the sleep,” she added, removing her palm. “But first, do you think you can eat a little something? I’ve made you some soup.”

      Cara smiled weakly but gratefully. “I thought I smelled something wonderful. And could I have a glass of water?”

      “Of course. I’m on my way.”

      Cara dragged herself up again, wincing at the relentless pulsing in her temples. But she could hold her eyes open in the dim light and the nausea had subsided. Outside her window the wind whistled. Thunder rolled so loud and close she could feel the vibrations, but it was fast moving. She knew this storm would soon move out to sea. She walked on wobbly legs to the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. When she returned, she found her mother already back in her bedroom with a tray filled with food and fresh flowers in a vase.

      “Here we are! Some nice chicken gumbo, chunks of bread, ice water, and best of all, aspirin.”

      Cara moved slowly, any sudden movement causing ricochets of pain in her head. She settled under the blankets and leaned back against the pile of pillows that her mother had plumped for her. “I feel like a patient in the hospital.”

      “You’re just home, darling. Do you often have these headaches?”

      “From time to time. They come if I work too late or sleep too long, that kind of thing. Chocolate does it, sometimes. Caffeine, on occasion. I’ve had more than the usual of all of the above recently.”

      “Genetics, most likely,” her mother said with conclusion. She rested the tray on Cara’s lap. As she spread out the napkin, she continued. “Your grandmother Beulah had headaches so bad she used to retire to her room for days with the shutters drawn. We children were instructed to play out of doors and were under strict orders to tiptoe around the house in stocking feet so as not to clump loudly on the hardwood floors. The order went for house staff, too. I remember how we used to giggle at seeing a hole in one of their stockings.”

      Cara savored the soup as the tastes exploded in her mouth. “Oh, God, I’d forgotten how good this was.”

      Lovie’s chest expanded as she watched.

      “If genetics win out,” Cara said as she dipped her spoon again, “then I reckon that hidden somewhere inside of me lies the knack for making gumbo like this. And greens…and barbeque sauce…and grits with tasso gravy.” She blew on another spoonful. “Though very deeply hidden,” she added with a twinkle in her eye before sliding the spoon in.

      “Pshaw. That has nothing to do with genetics. That’s training, pure and simple. Since the day you were old enough to help me in the kitchen. I wouldn’t be worth my salt as a mother if I didn’t pass on the family recipes.”

      Cara looked into her bowl.

      “What’s wrong, honey? You seem troubled. Do you want to talk about it?”

      “Not really.” She paused, realizing she’d sounded flippant. She hadn’t meant to. It was more a knee-jerk reaction to anyone probing into her personal life. Even her mother. Perhaps especially her mother. Taking a step to closing the gulf between them she added, “Not yet.”

      Lovie unclasped her hands and made a move toward the door. “I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

      “Mama,” Cara called out.

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